


Castles Fall in the Sand

by Darksilvercat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean/Cas Renegade Angels Fic Exchange, M/M, PWP, Post-Season 4, Top!Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:17:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darksilvercat/pseuds/Darksilvercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s been three days since Lucifer rose, two and a half days since Sam locked himself into Bobby’s panic room... Five hours ago Dean had gone outside to yell for Castiel.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castles Fall in the Sand

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal on September 10th 2009. Written for hells_hikari. Beta'd by mrstotten. Title pinched from _Good Girls Go To Heaven_ by Meat Loaf.

Sam has been unconscious for almost six hours by the time Castiel appears.

It’s been three days since Lucifer rose, two and a half days since Sam locked himself into Bobby’s panic room. Two days since Castiel showed up to deposit a very shell-shocked looking prophet into the care of Bobby and Dean, and forty-eight hours of sheer agony for all of them as Sam screamed and cried and hallucinated his way through his detox.

Until six hours ago, when the screams stopped, too abruptly for Dean to believe Sam was sleeping, and no amount of shaking would rouse him.

Five hours ago Dean had gone outside to yell for Castiel. Three hours ago he’d started to include Anna and Zachariah in his cries, but there had been no answer.

Two hours ago Bobby had lost his temper and upturned his desk, sending stacks of books and papers flying as he furiously declared that he had absolutely no idea how to help Sam, looking more tired and lost than Dean had ever seen him.

One hour ago Chuck had declared an intention to get stinking drunk, and Bobby had joined him. Dean had downed five shots of whiskey but refused the bottle, opting instead to go back outside for another round of screaming at the heavens.

He’s about ready to start yelling for _Lucifer_ \- the sonofabitch technically owes his freedom to Dean and Sam after all - when Castiel finally appears, looking far too goddamn calm for Dean’s liking.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demands, voice hoarse from hours of screaming and too much alcohol.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner Dean, I had other business to attend to.”

Castiel doesn’t _sound_ particularly sorry. Dean’s not sure if it’s the anger, the fear for Sam, the alcohol, or perhaps a combination of all three that makes him seize the angel by the front of his stupid trench coat and push him up against Bobby’s front door.

“Other business?” he growls, and Castiel winces slightly, though not at Dean’s rough handling. He scrunches his nose at Dean’s whiskey-laden breath, frowns at the near frantic tone, and glances down at the hands fisted in his coat before looking back up to meet Dean’s hazy glare.

A hand comes out of nowhere, two fingers outstretched and aimed at the centre of Dean’s forehead. The touch is as light as ever, but it feels like someone has upended a bucket of ice over Dean, bringing him sharply back to sobriety.

“Fuck,” he breathes as Castiel stares solemnly down at him. He untangles his fingers from Castiel’s coat and steps back, draws in a shaky breath and scrubs a hand through his hair as he tries to gather his thoughts.

“I am sorry Dean,” Castiel repeats softly. “What do you want?”

“It’s Sam,” he replies, his tone hollow. “He’s... he uh... he’s not doing too good.”

“Show me.”

*****

Dean leads Castiel down to the panic room where Sam lies motionless, his too pale skin covered with a thin sheen of sweat and his breathing shallow. He’s still chained to the bed, a precaution Bobby isn’t willing to remove just yet.

Bobby is seated at Sam’s side, a small stack of books beside his chair, and the one on his knee open to the same page it was on when Dean stepped outside over an hour ago. 

Chuck sits on the floor with his back against the iron wall and his knees drawn up to his chest, and he and Bobby have almost identical looks of helplessness, marred by the cloud of booze numbing their senses. There’s three empty whisky bottles lined up neatly on the table, and Dean almost wishes he was still drunk, because sobriety makes this far too _real_ for his liking.

Both Chuck and Bobby glance up when Dean swings the heavy iron door open. Chuck’s expression brightens slightly, a glimmer of hope in his gaze as he scrambles to his feet, swaying precariously on the spot. Bobby simply stares at them both, his eyes glassy and unfocused. It’s a look Dean hates seeing on anyone, but it seems especially wrong on Bobby, and once they get Sam back he’s going to make damn sure he never sees it again.

“Bout damn time,” Bobby huffs after an awkward moment of silence. Castiel looks to Dean, a silent request for permission in his eyes, and Dean gives a short nod. Stepping forward, Castiel stretches out his hand and applies the same instant intoxication cure to Bobby and Chuck. It’s a mark of how far gone Bobby is that he barely even flinches at Castiel’s touch, especially given that the last time they were in this situation Cas had knocked him out.

Neither man looks happy to be sober, although Dean figures they’ll be grateful tomorrow at least when they miss out on the bitch of a hangover they were undoubtedly heading for. There’s a moment of awkward silence where Bobby and Chuck stare at Castiel as though they’re not quite sure what to do with themselves, and then all three turn to look at Dean.

Dean glances at Sam, hesitant to make demands of Castiel now that the angel is actually here. The last thing he needs is for Cas to disappear on him. But Castiel inclines his head slightly - the same submissive expression on his face that he had worn around Zachariah - as he moves towards Sam.

Dean catches his breath as Castiel kneels beside Sam, gently resting his palm on Sam’s forehead.

“He’s been fighting his addiction,” Cas states softly, and Dean nods.

“Yeah. Yeah. Trying to get the demon blood out of his system,” he replies, though he’s fairly certain Cas knows that. They’ve been here before after all.

“Demon blood is no ordinary drug,” Castiel murmurs.

“No shit Sherlock,” Bobby growls. Dean shoots him a warning look, but Bobby doesn’t look like he wants to pick a fight, his expression is more impatient than aggressive.

Castiel acknowledges the comment with one of his patented head-tilts, before turning his full attention to Dean. He fixes Dean with that intense gaze that always seems to make him forget there’s anyone else in the room.

“You’ve seen him hallucinating,” he begins bluntly, and Dean immediately wonders if _Cas_ has seen him hallucinating, if he’s been watching all along. But that can’t be true because he’s fairly certain Cas - this Cas anyway - wouldn’t sit back and watch while the Winchesters went through another little taste of hell.

“Those hallucinations are an effect of his withdrawal, but what Sam sees is a product of his own imagination. This coma, it’s his own mind at war with itself. He will wake of his own accord eventually.”

Bobby and Chuck breathe sighs of relief, but Dean doesn’t stop watching Castiel. He’s been around the angel long enough now to be able to interpret the slight expressions Cas occasionally makes, and the one he’s wearing right now suggests there’s still more bad news.

“What’s the catch?” he demands, a little too sharply, and Castiel licks his lips, hesitating over his words. It occurs to Dean that every time he sees Cas the angel has bad news to deliver, and judging from Cas’ expression he’s no happier about that than Dean is.

“Your brother is at a crossroads Dean, he could go either way,” Cas says after a moment. “It’s possible that when he wakes up, he will be.... irreversibly changed.”

“What d’ya mean, _changed_ ,” Bobby demands, but Dean already knows. Remembers this part from before.

_Consuming the amount of demon blood it would take to kill Lilith would change your brother forever. Most likely, he would become the next creature that you would feel compelled to kill._

“How possible?” he chokes out. Castiel’s expression softens slightly, an edge of something, compassion or sympathy or sorrow in his eyes as he replies.

“Very.”

The ground seems to give way beneath his feet, and Dean can feel himself falling, barely aware of Bobby’s voice protesting Castiel’s verdict. The ground rushes up to meet him but the expected impact never comes - Castiel is there in an instant, one hand gripping tightly to Dean’s shoulder, keeping him upright.

Dean rests shaky hands on Cas’ shoulders and sucks in a deep breath before meeting the angel’s gaze.

“Tell me there’s something we can do,” he pleads.

Castiel hesitates. So many times Dean has had to beg him for help, and he’s not proud of it but the fact remains that Cas has never let him down yet. Sure enough, after a moment of silence, Castiel says slowly, cautiously: “I may have an idea.”

*****

Castiel has no idea if he can help Sam, but he knows he has to try. For Dean he has to try, because he’s already given up everything he has, and he can’t lose Dean too.

He doesn’t know why that thought scares him so much.

So he banishes the three conscious humans and locks himself in the panic room with Sam, because Sam is Dean and Dean is Sam, and there can’t be one without the other. It amazes him that Dean trusts him enough to leave him alone with Sam, and he wonders what will happen to that trust if Dean ever finds out that it was he who released Sam and set him on the trail of Lilith just three days ago.

He has tried since then to rationalise it, to tell himself that Zachariah was testing him and had he refused they would simply have sent another. But he is responsible and he knows it. The blame rests on his shoulders, and he can’t set this right. He doesn’t have the power to save Sam. Dean is expecting a miracle that he can’t perform, just as Sam had when Dean was injured by Alastair. Zachariah had refused him then.

Zachariah.

He slides the knife from his belt before he fully realises what he’s doing. It actually hurts to draw the blade across his skin, but he ignores the pain and sets to work.

*****

It takes a matter of seconds for Castiel to prepare himself, the loss of blood leaving him curiously off-balance, and so he waits the few minutes it takes for the cut on his arm to heal before calling out to Zachariah.

Zachariah answers almost immediately, and Castiel feels a momentary flare of fear when faced with his former superior, but his hand hovers carefully over the banishing sigil, and Zachariah notices it at once.

“Well, this is all very interesting,” he remarks.

“You have to help Sam,” Castiel states calmly, investing his tone with as much authority as he can muster. It is strange, and somewhat terrifying to be so openly defiant to Zachariah, but every act of defiance since his first rebellion only serves to strengthen his resolve. Zachariah frowns, clearly less pleased with this development than Castiel.

“You’re giving orders now are you?” he demands, starting towards Castiel with a murderous look in his eyes, but Castiel shifts his bloody hand closer to the banishing sigil, and Zachariah stops short.

“Consider it a suggestion,” Castiel replies. 

“And why would I do that?”

“The last time Dean lost his brother, he sold his soul. What do you think will happen if he loses him again?”

A flicker of uncertainty passes over Zachariah’s face, but he shakes it off.

“Dean can’t refuse us forever,” he declares confidently. “And if Sam here does ditch his brother, well, we have ways of making Dean get over that.”

It’s Castiel’s turn to hesitate, feeling strangely cold as he considers the implications of Zachariah’s words. The last time the angels attempted to make Dean get over something, they wiped his mind clean. The utter lack of recognition in Dean Smith’s expression as he passed Castiel on the street had hurt more than he cared to admit, and the thought of Dean Winchester being altered in any way fills him with a dread he can’t quite explain.

“You can’t,” he protests. “You need Dean as he is. Sam is too much a part of that to just erase it. And Sam may yet be of use to you as well,” he adds desperately.

“It’s true, Sam could still come in useful,” Zachariah replies, feigning thoughtfulness. “But why should I bother? I mean really Castiel; all I’ve had from the three of you is trouble and disobedience. You’ve even kidnapped our prophet, and now you just expect me to do as you wish?” The paternal air drops away, replaced with a menacing glare. “I don’t take orders from traitors.”

“I’m not a traitor,” Castiel growls, angered by the accusation, memories of Uriel still painfully fresh in his mind. “I’m not the one who abandoned God’s plan. You started this, and if you wish to finish it you _need Dean_. Give him back his brother and I will make sure he does as you wish.”

“Oh _you’ll_ make sure?” Zachariah laughs. “You’re hardly in a position to be promising that now are you? If it was Dean on the other hand....”

Castiel frowns and Zachariah smirks, seating himself casually on the chair previously occupied by Bobby.

“Did you really think I don’t know? If Dean said ‘jump’ you’d ask ‘how high?’. It’s pathetic really, someone like you following the orders of someone like him.”

“I’m not following his orders,” Castiel replies, surprised by how defensive he sounds, but Zachariah just laughs at him again. 

“What, do you think you’re his friend? Come on Castiel. All he ever does is call you and make demands, but when has he ever done anything for you? Is that friendship? You’re weak, and Dean knows it. You’d do anything for him, but he couldn’t care less about you. You’re like some lovesick puppy that keeps coming back no matter how many times its master kicks it.”

Zachariah sits back with a satisfied smile as his words strike home. Only sheer desperation keeps Castiel from slamming his hand down on the banishing sigil. Zachariah is right; Dean does not consider him a friend. Still, he can’t seem to shake this ridiculous hope that if he just keeps trying he may someday earn Dean’s friendship, but if he fails now then Dean will never want to see him again. So he forces himself to remain impassive, even as Zachariah jumps back to his feet and draws dangerously close.

“I’ll tell you what. Since you all failed so miserably to stop Lucifer from rising, I’ll offer a consolation prize. I’ll fix Sam, but you, Castiel, will ‘owe me one’ as the saying goes. Someday I’ll call in that favour, and of course it will no doubt result in you betraying Dean in some way because I’ll enjoy the irony in that. And if you refuse me, I’ll kill Sam. How does that sound?”

It sounds no different than a deal with a demon, but Castiel refrains from saying so. He has no desire to betray Dean, but allowing Sam to die would be a greater betrayal, he’s sure of that much. Zachariah clearly thinks he’s got Castiel beaten, but Castiel has had an eternity of experience dealing with Heaven’s laws, and as he turns Zachariah’s offer over in his mind he’s fairly confident he can find some kind of loophole. He’s careful not to let it show however, allowing a look of defeat into his expression, lowering his eyes and slumping his shoulders as he says: “Deal.”

Zachariah smiles triumphantly and holds his hand out. Castiel grits his teeth and shakes Zachariah’s hand, unable to keep from wincing when Zachariah’s grip crushes the bones in his own hand. There’s a sharp stab of pain in his palm, and he can feel his blood mingling with Zachariah’s, sealing the agreement. Then Zachariah steps back, still smirking like as he leans down to tap Sam’s forehead lightly.

As soon as he straightens up again, Castiel slams his hand down on the banishing sigil, and Zachariah vanishes in a burst of light.

*****

Dean see’s the light from the corner of his eye, and a flash of panic floods his system. He turns back and runs down to the basement, arriving just in time to see Castiel opening the door to the panic room.

He stops abruptly, his heart thudding painfully in his chest as he gazes at Castiel, unable to read the angel’s expression and too afraid to hope. Castiel slides the door carefully closed and looks up to meet Dean’s gaze.

“He’s going to be okay Dean,” Castiel says tiredly and something inside Dean snaps, an overwhelming sense of relief crashing over him.

He’s hugging Cas before he even realises what he’s doing, and for a moment Cas stands stiffly in his grip, but Dean refuses to let go until some of the tension leaves Cas and his hands come up hesitantly to pat Dean’s shoulders.

They stand like that just long enough for the hug to cross from ‘spur of the moment’ to something slightly awkward before Dean pulls back, waiting for Cas to meet his eyes before uttering a heartfelt thank you. The words dry up in his mouth though when he realises that Castiel doesn’t look anywhere near as pleased as Dean feels.

“We need to talk Dean,” Castiel says once Dean has stopped speaking, and his tone is so serious, so businesslike that Dean automatically flinches. Whatever Cas is about to say, he doesn’t want to hear it. It’s been too long since he’s felt any kind of hope at all, and he doesn’t want to let it go just yet. Lucifer, the angels, the apocalypse, it can all wait just a little longer.

Cas apparently isn’t on the same wavelength though, because he continues talking, and Dean can feel this sense of relief slipping through his fingers already and he’s not ready to let it go. It’s been too long since he’s had anything to feel good about, and right now he doesn’t care about anything else, not Lucifer, not the angels and not the goddamn apocalypse. He wants to hold onto this feeling, but Castiel is still talking and every time Dean tries to interrupt he just frowns and continues. He has to shut Cas up somehow and so he acts without thinking, grabbing Cas and slamming him up against the wall.

The action is enough to make Cas shut up, but Dean barely notices as he presses in close to the angel. Their position reminds him of that moment three days ago when Cas was the one pinning _Dean_ against the wall, reminds him of that sudden flare of hope when he’d realised what Cas was planning. He’s not quite sure how he gets from that to kissing - gratitude maybe, the whole good feeling thing probably - but by the time he realises what he’s doing, his mouth is already pressed against Castiel’s.

Cas makes a soft sound of surprise and Dean pulls back almost immediately, feeling every bit as stunned as Cas looks. This isn’t something he’s ever considered, but for some reason it had felt like a fantastic idea for all of two seconds, right up until the point where he realises that Castiel probably doesn’t do this kind of thing.

Sure enough, when he dares to actually raise his eyes to Castiel’s face, the angel’s expression sits somewhere between shocked and confused. Dean clears his throat, intending to apologise, but before he can form the words Cas surges forward, seizing him by the shirt and switching their position so that Dean is the one pressed against the wall.

He gets as far as, “Cas, I’m sor-” before Cas crushes their mouths together and steals the breath from his lungs.

Aside from his encounter with Anna, Dean really hasn’t given much thought to the concept of angels and sex. He’d kinda figured that it was just a non-issue, but this is apparently not the case. Castiel kisses like a pro, with just the right amount of pressure, occasional nips to Dean’s lower lip while his hands skate down over Dean’s chest and come to rest on his hips, fingertips slipping beneath Dean’s shirt and pressing into his skin. Dean gasps at the touch as Cas lays a trail of kisses down his neck, and _holy crap_ , this really wasn’t what he’d been planning but common sense seems to have left the building, replaced by the incredible sensation of _Castiel_. Castiel’s body pressed against him, Castiel’s hands sliding beneath Dean’s shirt, Castiel’s tongue dipping into the hollow above his collarbone. 

“Fuck,” he gasps when Cas’ fingers brush across his nipples, and it occurs to him that he’s clearly wearing far too much clothing right now. Cas pulls back when he speaks though, and it takes a moment for Dean to fight his way back through the haze of desire and understand the question in Castiel’s eyes.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, his common sense is screaming that this is a bad, bad idea. But right now he’s more interested in that sensation of relief that seems to flood his system whenever Castiel is near, the feeling that he’s not alone in this, there’s an _angel_ on his side. An angel who for some ridiculous reason seems to care about Dean in spite of everything, and wants this as much as Dean does. There’s a chance here for Dean to escape, to let go and feel something good for a change, and maybe it’s a little strange that it’s _Cas_ who’s making him feel this way, but he’s not really in the mood to be thinking about that.

He nods his head slowly, deliberately, just as he had in the green room. A message of _yes, I trust you. Yes_.

Cas kisses him again, hard and urgent this time, and his entire world spins. The wall seems to ripple beneath his back, and then they’re upstairs in the guest room that has become Dean’s room in recent days, and Dean stops thinking about anything beyond Castiel’s mouth on his.

*****

Zachariah’s taunts are still echoing in Castiel’s ears when Dean kisses him, and it tastes like ash in his mouth to realise how right his superior was. He has known Dean for over a year now, and he knows that to Dean, sex is simply a means of comfort and release. It hurts to think that, to Dean, he is nothing more than a means to an end, yet at the same time he can’t help but _want_. It’s almost frightening how much he craves physical contact since he was bound to this body; heightened sensations of touch, of pleasure and pain almost impossible to resist.

When Dean pulls back just seconds later and begins to apologise, he decides he doesn’t care that this is not what he truly wants from Dean. There’s fear in Dean’s eyes, and it occurs to Castiel that Dean needs him - or at least he thinks he does - not as a friend but as an ally. Zachariah was right; Dean relies on him for assistance.

Dean wouldn’t want to lose the help Castiel can offer.

When he pins Dean against the wall and kisses him back, he tells himself he’s just giving Dean what he wants. But something deep inside whispers to him that he can have this, he can take what _he_ wants, and Dean will not dare turn him away for fear of losing one of his few remaining allies.

The thought fills him with shame, though Dean gasps against him as he presses kisses to Dean’s neck, proving himself more interested than Castiel had expected. He loses himself for a moment in exploring Dean’s body with his hands and mouth, until Dean gasps out the word _fuck_ , and he realises that that is exactly what he intends to do here.

He pulls back and gazes at Dean, silently seeking permission. The moment Dean nods, Castiel moves to kiss him again before he can change his mind, transporting them both upstairs in the same instant.

Dean responds to the change with enthusiasm, tugging at Castiel’s coat almost as soon as he realises where they are. They fumble with each other’s clothing until Castiel pushes Dean back. Dean stares at him for a moment before nodding his understanding at the way Castiel’s gaze rakes over his body, and turning his attention to his own clothes.

Castiel is more than a little surprised at the way Dean strips for him without question. He hadn’t really given it much thought of course, but he hadn’t exactly expected Dean to be the type who would so willingly submit to another.

Dean sits back on the bed, utterly unashamed as he reclines against the pillows and waits, and Castiel is torn between getting undressed as fast as he can and taking the time to explore his newly acquired body without the clothes he has been wearing for over a year.

Speed wins out when Dean trails one hand lazily down his stomach and over his erection, and suddenly the issue of Castiel’s own body is utterly unimportant. Dean smirks at how fast he manages to strip, and then he’s on the bed, leaning over Dean and pressing him into the mattress.

Dean grabs his hips and pulls him down without pretence, arching upwards at the same time, and Castiel has to suppress a groan at how good it feels just to _touch_ , the sensation of skin on skin rapidly becoming the only thing he can think about. He slides a hand up Dean’s chest, and his fingertips brush the scar on Dean’s shoulder but he pulls away before he can give in to the temptation to lay his hand over the mark. Dean either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, too preoccupied with grinding up against Castiel.

Sliding a hand between their bodies, Castiel takes hold of both their erections, and Dean swears loudly, bucking into his grip. Castiel leans down and claims Dean’s mouth, needing something to distract him from the pleasure that threatens to overwhelm him.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean hisses out, and the sound of his name on Dean’s lips is enough to strip away the last of his restraint.

*****

Dean has no idea what he was expecting when he kissed Cas, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. Not that _this_ is a bad thing, far from it, it’s quite possibly the best thing that’s happened to him since he dragged himself out of his own grave. Since _Cas_ dragged him out of _Hell_.

Still, he’s pretty sure this falls outside his usual range of experience, but he trusts Cas, and it’s probably just an angel thing, but something about Cas’ touch is driving him crazy. It’s like electricity running over his skin, an incredible sensation that he can’t seem to get enough of. His dick is especially interested, and he’s not going to last long if Cas doesn’t hurry things along. He tries to say something, but barely manages to get out the words _fuck, Cas,_ before Castiel begins to slide down the bed, laying a trail of hot, biting kisses across Dean’s chest and stomach. His fingers dig into Dean’s hips and hold him firmly in place, and he wastes no time in taking Dean’s dick into his mouth and - _holy fuck_ \- swallowing him all the way down.

Dean lets out an embarrassingly loud cry, and it takes every ounce of restraint he has not to come right then and there. He reaches down and threads his fingers into Cas’ hair, surprised at how soft it is and feeling a little guilty at how hard he tugs it a second later when Cas repeats the move.

He’s much too distracted to notice when Cas moves one hand away from his hip and slides it down behind his balls, but he sure as hell notices when Cas pulls away a second later, scooting further down the bed and lowering his head until he can press his tongue against Dean’s entrance; lightly at first, and then with increasing pressure as Dean moans and writhes in response.

“Fuck,” Dean gasps, that word being apparently the only one left in his vocabulary as he leans across the bed and scrabbles frantically in the top drawer of the bedside table. He finds the lube and hands it down to Cas, and seconds later there’s a slick finger pushing inside him. The sharp sting of pain soon subsides, and Dean’s grateful for that, because it doesn’t seem like Cas is in the mood to take his time.

A second finger joins the first after a few moments, and a third after that. The pain doesn’t subside as fast this time, but it’s not entirely bad either, a satisfying edge to the pleasure that courses through him.

“Cas,” Dean groans, and it’s the only cue Cas needs. He withdraws his fingers and pulls Dean upright, turning him so that Dean is on his knees with his hands braced against the wall. The position strikes Dean as a little odd - like Cas doesn’t want to look him in the eye - and when has that ever been an issue? But now is not the time to complain, not when Cas is right behind him, his dick lined up against Dean’s ass and his hands settling on Dean’s hips. 

Sharp teeth sink into his shoulder at the same time that Cas tightens his grip on Dean’s hips and pushes forward, and a strangled moan escapes him at the _painpleasurepain_. He thinks he hears a moan from Cas too, muffled against his shoulder.

Cas gives him a moment to adjust to the intrusion, rocking slowly, carefully forward until he’s buried to the hilt in Dean.

“Fucking _move_ ,” Dean grits out after a moment of stillness, and Cas complies, pulling almost completely out before driving forward. One, two, three thrusts and Cas finds his rhythm, Dean meeting him stroke for stroke. It’s hot and hard and fast, and when Cas nudges Dean’s knees further apart and the angle changes just enough for Cas’ dick to drag over Dean’s prostate, it’s damn near perfect.

He’s painfully close to coming when Cas finally reaches round and takes hold of his dick, stroking it in time with his thrusts, but he realises he has no idea if Cas is as close. He reaches one hand behind him, digging his fingers into Cas’ thigh and feeling the abrupt shift and flex of muscles, coupled with a slight trembling that could be coming from either one of them.

“Cas, I can’t.... I’m gonna...” he pants, and Cas says something in what sounds suspiciously like Latin, breathing the words against Dean’s neck before raising his mouth to Dean’s ear.

“Let go,” he murmurs. 

It’s barely more than a whisper, but the command in his tone is unmistakeable and Dean obeys, giving himself over to his release. Castiel follows with a cry that he muffles against Dean’s shoulder, and for a brief moment their bodies lock, every muscle taut, limbs wound around each other in a perfect fit before they fall apart, collapsing to the bed together.

In the time it takes for Dean to catch his breath and regain control of his muscles, Cas manages to make it to the bathroom and back, bringing a washcloth and a bowl of warm water that he uses to clean them both up. He avoids Dean’s eyes as he works, and Dean feels a thin coil of dread beginning to form in his stomach.

“Cas?” he murmurs, reaching a tentative hand out to run through Cas’ hair. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Cas replies, sounding anything but.

“Are you sure?” he presses. Cas drops the washcloth back into the bowl of water and sets it aside. 

“We still need to talk,” he states, and Dean huffs out a stunned laugh.

“I was kinda hoping that was the talk you had in mind,” he says, trying for a joke that falls irritatingly flat. Castiel simply shakes his head and opens his mouth to continue.

“Does it have to be right now?” Dean cuts him off hurriedly. “I mean, I’m kind of tired Cas. Can’t it wait?”

Castiel hesitates, looking as though he’s fighting some internal battle with himself. After a brief pause, he nods and relents. Dean tugs at his shoulder and Cas returns awkwardly to the bed. Tossing the blanket over them both, Dean settles back down, pulling Cas closer and ignoring the voice in the back of his head that’s saying Dean Winchester doesn’t cuddle. He’s not cuddling, it’s just cold in this room and Cas happens to be a great source of heat. A great source of sex too apparently, and that’s all there is to it. Heat and sex and cold comfort.

He’ll just have to keep telling himself that until he believes it.


End file.
